


if you need me all you have to do is ask

by bladeCleaner



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, no seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeCleaner/pseuds/bladeCleaner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beverly and Will. Separate parts, different categories of people. They don't belong anywhere in the vicinity of 'together'. </p><p>"I don't really-do friends," he says, and she says, "Wow, that is really sad and untrue."</p><p>Goes AU around 1x09/1x10</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. begin by getting really, really drunk. blackout drunk

**Author's Note:**

> IF I DON'T POST THIS I'LL GO MAD  
> Also I headcanon that Will is even dorkier when drunk because, well, he's kind of a dork a lot. I know we're all very obsessed with Dark!Will right now, but pls, Graham. PLS

The moment he falls for her is the moment he knows he’s absolutely fucked.

Alana is one thing. With Beverly it’s a whole different beast altogether.

It’s after him being shot down by Alana that he starts noticing her. Not-not in a creepy way, or a rebound way, exactly, he’d defend, but just. Noticing.

She wears a lot of leather jackets. She likes wearing sunglasses even though it’s rarely sunny where they are (and isn’t that funny? She likes to laugh). She likes this artist, Willard Wigan.

She’s not afraid of him.

These are several things about Beverly Katz, and not nearly half of the things he notices that he likes.

One day he notices her sitting at the back of one of his seminars. She’s wearing an oxblood button-down shirt, cuffed sleeves; skinny black jeans. Her usual casual repertoire, and when he pauses in the middle of the lecture to raise one eyebrow at her, she winks and ducks her head down when a few students turn around to look.

Class files out and he approaches her slowly. She comes down the stairs less warily, but no less respectfully than the students before her.

She stops and looks at him with her usual grin, and says, “Professor _couture_. It suits you.”

He self-consciously touches the elbow patches sewn onto his coat and tucks the glasses away on his collar.

“What’s the case?”

“None, actually. Jack sent me here to fetch paperwork from the Lincoln case,” she replies casually.

“Oh. Here.” He walks over to his desk and shuffles around his haphazard desk until he fetches the relevant documents and hands them over.

She takes them. “Thanks, Will.”

He gathers his paperwork and is a bit surprised to see that she’s still standing there. He notes that her expression seems to always be at least a little amused around him.

He clears his throat. “Did-did I forget something?”

“No-I was just thinking. Do you have plans today, Will?”

It’s Friday and usually he goes home; checks on his dogs, maybe makes a lure. “No. Not really.”

“Good.”

He looks at her and does that _thing_ with his face where it’s all scrunched up in some kind of derisive confusion and thought-trying to unlace the intricacies of social interaction.

“It’s not a _murder,_ Will. FBI Friday. Wear anything you won’t mind getting soaked in alcohol. Jimmy has a tendency to spill his drinks, and I’m counting on Brian to challenge you to a drinking contest.”

He strangely feels like he’s being inducted/abducted. “Am I being initiated?”

“Think of it as more of dipping your toes in.”

“Will Jack be there?”

She snorts. “No.”

He considers. Duck Dynasty’s the only thing on television and-it’s Beverly, grinning at him from across the room.

He feels like an inept teenager going to his first high school party. (To be honest, he never made it to one of those. High school was an isolated period. He also got the shit kicked out of him during that period.)

“I’m in,” and she doesn’t blink an eyelid. She turns around like she expected him to say _yes_ all along and raises a hand, tells him the name of the bar as she leaves.

He’s left standing there clutching his papers.

\--

The bar’s respectable, but incongruous. It looks normal. It’s not too crowded, but not too sparse; there are people playing pool, shooting darts, downing tequila. He gets carded by the door and shoves his hands in his pockets. Jeans and flannel-he looks like any other guy in the bar, and it’s honestly relaxing, to not be underdressed for once-he’s too used to a world of power suits and lab coats.

Brian, Jimmy and Beverly show up as a leather-jacketed trio. Beverly’s got a wolf shirt on, roaring at the moon. Brian and Jimmy are discussing the molars they found as evidence on their case today until Beverly smacks Jimmy on the forehead and said, “Cut down on the shop talk, remember? Rule number one."

He grumbles but shuffles off to buy a beer. Brian gives Will a skeptical look. “Hello, Agent Graham,” he says stiltedly.

“Hello, Agent Zeller,” Will replies tiredly.

“Play nice, boys,” Beverly rolls her eyes. They settle at a corner booth at the end of the bar. Jimmy shows up with his beer.

“Starting early, Jimmy? I haven’t even eaten any peanuts.” Beverly says, as she reaches across the table to grab the dish of peanuts provided.

He looks, to the contrary, sober. “Taxes.”

“Tough, buddy,” Brian says, and then the waitress comes over to take their drinks.

“Long Island Iced Tea,” Beverly says.

“Kahlua,” says Brian.

Will hasn’t drunk anything but wine since he started therapy with Hannibal. “Um, whiskey on the rocks.”

Beverly whistles. Jimmy says, “Refined man, refined man,” nodding absentmindedly, and Brian scowls.

“You got it,” the waitress says, friendly; he tries not to think about what her face would look like on a platter. _Shop talk._

Over the course of the evening, he decides to list his observations:

  1.        They’ve called each other the Science Team since Jimmy came up with it, and Beverly wants shirts made.
  2.        Brian thinks shirts cost too much.
  3.        Jimmy wants to ask the FBI for a team budget.
  4.       Beverly thinks they should just ask Jack.
  5.        Will thinks this is a terrible idea.
  6.       At some point they all do shots.
  7.        This is also a terrible idea, but Beverly says that Will’s being initiated, so this is his hazing process.
  8.       Brian is terrible at holding his alcohol and singing.
  9.       Jimmy apparently studied the Classics and is reciting to him part of Beowulf before he passes out.
  10.      Brian goes, “Man, I’m so sorry about being such an ass. You’re like, smart. Shit. I love you man! I love you!” before he passes out in Will’s lap.
  11.     Beverly is the only one who can hold her alcohol, apparently.
  12.     Jimmy wakes up and drunk dials Jack, who is mightily belligerent before Will says tipsily, “Jack. Jack, we need _shirts_ ,” and Brian makes a yelp of excitement.
  13.     Jack says, utterly astonished, “Will?” and Will says, “Dr. Scott!” and hangs up.
  14.    Beverly takes away his phone before he drunk dials Alana.
  15.     They all get kicked out of the bar, mainly because Jimmy is creeping the other patrons out with details of corpses and Brian won’t stop singing Journey melodies.



 

Beverly, luckily, is the only one who drove over. She drives them over to IHOP, where Will drunkenly talks to her about philosophy and tea cups and hey, hey, Beverly. Do you think I’m unstable?

Jimmy and Brian are too busy eating pancakes to hear him. But she does. They’re sitting next to each other and she says softly, “You remember what I said the first time we met?”

“Yeah, it was rude, but I forgive you. You’re nice.”

She sighs. “Right now, I think you’re drunk. You probably won’t remember any of this.” She lays her head on his shoulder. She’s warm.

“You had fun tonight, right?” She asks.

“Yeah-yeah, though, um, Jack-Jack’s going to kill us,” he says, chuckling. “Not in the traditional sense. But-you know.”

“Nah, you’re his special apple,” Brian says. “It’s like, wow.”

Jimmy agrees. “Your skillset is unmatched.”

Will squirms, a little uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

The next hour or so is a haze of syrup and Beverly pulling up at his house, helping him inside. Brian and Jimmy waving like kids from the backseat of her car.

Saturday morning is awful. Terrible. He hasn’t had a hangover since college, and it’s not a feeling he’s missed.

His phone is ringing. He answers it without seeing who it is, and Jack’s voice booms out at him.

“Will, care to explain to me what your texts mean?”

He puts him on speaker and looks at his SENT messages. They’re a garble of drunken stupidity.

“Shhh. Shhhh. Your voice, Jack. Has anyone told you you speak too loudly? Are there centers for that?”

 “Agent Graham, are you hungover?”

“I plead the Fifth, Agent Crawford.”

“Will, it’s none of my business who you fraternize with on your free time, but my employees-”

“Invited me for a social drink, Jack, it’s nothing to be worried about."

“Alright, Will. Just-”

The dial tone is relief. He’s way too sleepdrunk to deal with Jack and his bullhorn tones. Sorry, Jack.

About 5 seconds later the phone rings and he picks it up, says, “Jack-”

“Open the door, Will.”

He shoots up like a flipped up jack knife. “Beverly?”

“I come bearing sustenance.”

“Give me a minute.”

He sounds more composed than he actually is, as he scrambles to throw on something over his underwear. The silhouette of her by the door.

He opens the door. She’s got donuts and coffee. She gives him a teasing look before she reaches out and straightens his collar. Her fingers are like ice.

She doesn’t ask for an invitation, just swoops right in, hands him his coffee and sets the donuts on the table.

“I got you a mocha. I didn’t know how you liked it, but I assume you like sugar?”

He blinks. The paper cup is warming him up by the fingers, and he’s grateful, also very confused. That seems to be the default around Beverly, nowadays.

“Morning,” he says.

She’s sipping her coffee and munching on a jelly donut while looking around at his place in fascination.

“Morning, Will.” She says, sobering a bit. “How’s the hangover?”

Before he can answer, Winston comes up to her and she lets out a startled, delighted laugh. It’s a bright sound and she laughs as she scratches him behind the ear, ruffles his fur. “You take hair of the dog very literally, I see,” she says, and he makes a twisted smile.

“My head is throbbing,” he answers her, finally, when her dog euphoria settles down and Winston’s distracted by the patches of sunlight.

“It is indeed a bitch.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. It’s sweet, way too sweet, but he needs the sugar. It goes down hot and he feels a little more awake than before.

She pushes the donut box towards him.

“Did Jack call you?” he asks.

“Yeah. Did I pick up?” She taps her chin with her forefinger thoughtfully, as if contemplating an important philosophical point.

He shakes his head, gently smiling. “He sounded very confused over the phone. Fun,” he emphasizes bitterly, “is not exactly an activity in which I participate willingly.”

She leans forward, and grins. “Am I _influencing_ you, Will?”

He pauses for a moment. Shrugs, as if to say it’s not-it’s not exactly unwelcome.

Her Cheshire’s cat grin sets itself on her mouth. “Gotcha.” 


	2. high school never ends

She doesn’t know what she expected.

It’s basically a boat on land. It’s homey, natural, cozy. A little messy around the edges, but beautiful nonetheless. His stone fireplace, his little kitchen and beat up furniture.

She decides she likes it. It’s nice to see what he comes home to. The other dogs scrambled up to her on the porch, and they were adorable and gruff and great.

She wonders if they’re all strays like the rumors in the office say. Will the compassionate psychopath, they call him. Hates people, likes dogs. He’s got a fishing hat on the table and she nearly laughs; do they have lucky charms on them?

Will’s swallowing, looking at her standing in the sunlight near his kitchen sink as she wanders about his house freely. She walks like she belongs here and it scares him a little.

He goes up to her nonetheless as she picks up a dirty plate and _tsk_ s softly.

"Living the bachelor life of a government agent, I see."

"I should get a dishwasher."

She hums absentmindedly.

“Are you-”

“So I-”

They’re tripping over each other’s words and both of them break into awkward, you-go-first grins.

“Sorry. You first,” she says quickly.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Lecter soon,” he scrambles for a lie, any convincing lie, because as much as Beverly is as close to a friend as he can get right now he doesn’t know how to deal with-with her treating him like a human being, not a case, nor a means to an end.

It’s intimidating.

“Okay. I’ll be out, then. Enjoy the donuts, Agent Graham,” she says, all business. As quickly as she came she’s grabbing her jacket and striding up to the door. She doesn’t look behind her to see if he’s following.

He lingers by the door as she leaves, her leather jacket tossed over her shoulder. He calls her name and she turns around. Her face stamped in the sunlight and he thinks; _let me remember this._

“See you Monday?” and the question’s left dangling by his lips. He looks so uncertain Beverly takes pity on him.

“Yeah. See you Monday,” she says, waves, and gets into her car.

On Sunday, in between preparing lectures and marking essays, he’ll text:

“How did you know where I live?”

“Same way I know where you teach.”

He gets a text from Jimmy before he comes into the lab Monday morning:

“Jack’s on the warpath. Look out.”

In the most inane way he feels like he’s back in high school, somehow. He’s only witnessed this kind of camaraderie there. He wasn’t _in_ a lot of the time, but when he was allowed, he’d be passed the same notes; _Ms. Carlisle’s on the fucking rag again,_ or some variation thereof.

The rest of the period everyone would be tiptoeing around her and students nodding at each other as they transferred stolen hall passes between their palms. He never got one, but he was keen enough to see the exchanges going on.

They’re not teenagers anymore, but the same rules apply.

Brian gives him a near-imperceptible nod when they lock gazes. They don’t say hi, but its progress.

Then Jack’s in the room, demanding to know why they haven’t made progress yet.

 _Same shit, different day_ , Brian mouths to Jimmy. Will and Beverly look at each other and he’s trying not to laugh in disbelief.

When did this become his new normal?

Was there anything before?

\--

“Twenty on the Forensics expert.”

_“Who?”_

“You know. The one with all the wicked leather jackets and the hair. She came in last time and sat on his _desk._ ”

“Oh, her. Really?”

“I tell you, she’s Dark Horse material.”

“Five on the pretty therapist. I like, looked her up, she’s got a name similar to _Flower-”_

“Yeah, her, I like her.”

“No way. I say that scary guy with the fuckin’ fancy suits. Bet you-”

“You don’t know Professor Graham’s _that way.”_

“That’s just homophobic, he could be bi, you know, and we can’t tell-”

Usually, he’s a couple minutes late to class getting coffee, but today he got up early. There’s already a steaming latte in his hands, with cinnamon and almond sauce.

He clears his throat.

His students whirl around and have, at least, the decency to look guilty.

Ever since he killed Garett Jacob Hobbs, they’ve been ceaselessly fascinated with him. He’d thought they’d given up, but there’s something sensationalistic about seeing your professor being blabbed about everywhere online.

That and Freddie Lounds has tried accosting several of his students for more personal information on him.

That usually takes a young person’s interest.

The boy collecting all the money-unnaturally blonde with a sheepish smile-hides his hand with amateur slowness. Everyone scrambles back to their chairs.

He’s not about to let this go, as much as it’d be easier to turn a blind eye.

“Mr. Rivers. What were you and your classmates just discussing?”

“Er. Um, nothing, Professor Graham, just-just some homework assistance, that’s all.”

“Oh, do tell. I’m happy to help with any specific questions you might have.”

The entire room gets ten degrees cooler, and in the back he can see someone wince.

“Mr. Rivers, I advise you to be a better liar before you graduate the FBI Academy.” He says, irritation coming off him in waves. “Out of curiosity, how much did you manage to leech off your classmates? Did you enter the forces to be a con artist, or simply to prove incompetence?”

This particular issue stings. This is slightly personal, yes; but he hasn’t cracked down on any of them yet; Mr. Rivers just has the bad luck of being an example.

The blonde boy looks down. Will sighs, mercifully.

“I will neglect to put this on your record if you hand everyone back their money now. Should I catch any of you pooling together again, every single one of you has a much slimmer chance of making it into the Bureau. _Understood_?”

Everyone nods silently. He’d made a point to put a bit of Jack into his voice. It really helps in the academic environment.

He waits until Brook-that’s Mr. Rivers-is done, and says slyly, “And for the record, I’m married to my dogs.”

Everyone laughs.

He’s getting better at being _in._

\--

That day, when classes are over, instead of burying himself in his work, he watches them leave. Mr. Rivers has the grace to apologize profusely and sincerely, which he accepts thoughtlessly. It makes him a little amused, a bit bitter, and a lot uncomfortable, to think they’re so invested in his personal life. But he can’t blame them, not really. He’s always been a slight spectacle.

For the first time, he sets aside their papers and instead of analyzing their strengths and weaknesses as federal agents, _sees_ them.

At least three quarters of the class have idol-crushes on him. He knows the girl in the back, Veronica, once testified as an abuse victim in a domestic case. Mr. Rivers himself came from an orphanage. The joker of the class, Bryan, watched his father put a bullet in his mother.

They’re all smart as a whip. He sighs. It’d honestly be a lie if he didn't admit he can’t wait for one of them to replace him.

\--

He runs into Alana at a stationary shop. There’s a thousand of them in Minnesota. God damn it. He nearly sets the stapler he was planning to purchase down and sprints out the backdoor.

“Fight or flight theory,” Hannibal told him. “It’s an instinct in all animals.”

He’s so sick of dancing around other people for his own sake, of people dancing around _him_ for his own sake.

He pays for his stapler and says hi to Alana, who looks shocked to see him.

 _I’m not a tea cup that breaks once you drop it, Alana._ He says, so soft, before he can lose the nerve.

He leaves her there.

Puts the memory away.

\--

_I’m unstable, but that doesn’t mean I’m not str-_

_I wish you had faith in me-_

\--

There’s not much else to say, really.

He still cares about her so much it hurts. But it doesn’t hurt that much anymore.

_Keep telling yourself that, bud._

\--

When he and Beverly see each other proper, it’s Thursday. They’re both exhausted from dealing with Jack.

He spots her sitting on the curb. She’s doing nothing, just her arms on her knees, looking at the horizon.

He sits down next to her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She blows out a tired breath. “Just tired. Murder metaphors and _joie de vivre_ killings. You’d think our killers would be tired of all the poetic pretense. Inflated egotists.”

He chuckles slightly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but you have a point.”

“They all take themselves so bloody _seriously_ , like violence is a revered art, when it’s just gratuitous bullshit-you killed someone, it doesn’t make you a divine figure. You mutilated the body, go you. The elevation of hypermasculine masturbation,” she rambles, and she stops when he raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, what does a forensics’ opinion matter,” she mutters, and she splays her fingers against the sidewalk.

“I care about your opinion,” he says.

She smiles at him then, the first one she’s had all day. “Thanks, Will.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way. About them,” he says awkwardly. It’s a little jarring to hear that perspective when everyone else in the department seems content to play along with the-theatre sets of each murder. A symphony of bodies? Seems legitimate. Ascending mortality to a divine plane? Okay. Each corpse a tribute, a resource to be had? Sure. Getting kids to kill their moms for a chance at a new family? Alright then.

He looks at each of these killers and sees how they really think. It’s hard to hear the truth; they’re just delusions of grandeur.

“We’re all human beings at the end of the day. We’re not gods, we’re not puppetmasters, we’re not _angels._ We’re alive.”

“Some people feel like that’s not enough,” he replies.

“Well, fuck _them!_ Humanity itself is a walking miracle, millions of cells in cooperation and the brain itself-the complexity of its synapses and neurons. The skin a gigantic organ that replaces itself completely every 7 years-we’re amazing.”

She sounds out of breath, exalted, angry.

After a few minutes as she breathes, he says, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Reminding me why I took this job in the first place.”

She grins at him then. She runs her hands through her hair. “Listen to me, the idealistic scientist. Sorry for ranting.”

“It’s okay. You have to tolerate _my_ monologues,” he replies, teasingly.

“Is that a sense of humor I hear?” She punches him playfully on the shoulder.

“You’re a bad influence,” he reminds her.

She smiles. “Damn _straight._ ”


	3. the origin story and movie night

Monday morning.

There’s ink on her cheek when he approaches her. Awkwardly, he gestures to his face. She raises an eyebrow. Her mouth already tilted into a smirk.

“Seaweed in my teeth?”

“You’ve, um, you’ve got some ink on your-” he almost reaches up to wipe it away and instantly thinks better of it.

“Oh-okay. Thanks.” She smears it into something worse and he laughs nervously. The heel of her hand is stained now.

A flicker of an image; his thumb caressing her cheekbone as he stares at her clinically, and he thinks for a second, _Hannibal-_

He blinks furiously for a minute. What the heck was _that?_

“Will? Will, you okay?”

He looks at her. She’s right there. But he feels a million miles away. He wants to touch her suddenly; completely sober, right here where anybody could see. Just to see if she’s real. But there lies dangerous land.

“Yeah. Um, it’s still there.”

She wipes at it more intently and it finally comes off. “Is it-”

“It’s gone. So, about the paperwork on the Mangler..?”

“Hold on, I think that’s in my car.” She walks off, and when he doesn’t follow she looks over at him with a worried expression. “C’mon; you look like you need some fresh air, anyway.”

\--

Beverly, he learns, has two nieces that she carpools on her way to work. The back of her car looks like Barbie and GI Joe had an altercation. He raises his eyebrows.

She chastises, “I’m an organizational disaster when it comes to my automobile.You should’ve guessed, Mr. Empath; it’s your job,” and he recoils a bit but she doesn’t pay notice to it at all.

Outside of the lab and in it (Jackless) she’s sarcastic and openly jeers Brian about his beard. He, in turn, snarks about her being Jack’s second pet. Jimmy is like their zen master; the father figure in lieu of Jack sometimes. It’s his odd serenity. His head’s cloudland. Will can’t help but drift over to him sometimes. There’s comfort in knowing someone else’s head is never in the present moment, either.

He’s starting to see them as people outside of the lab coats.

But…

"I’m scared to look inside your head."

That makes her turn around, stop shuffling around in the backseat of her car.

"Why?"

_Because of what you might think of me_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. _Because of what everybody might say to you behind my back._

"Everyone deserves their privacy," he says. Neglects to answer. She looks at him for a moment and he’s sure, absolutely certain without even needing to close his eyes, wind himself up and _go_ ; that she’s going to say something. Then she goes back to organizing her car and hands him the papers.

“That’s kind of funny,” she mutters to herself.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was just thinking. There was this old game me and my brother used to play. Like, you ever heard of the game Assassin? Battle Royale? Circle of Death?”

The words make his eyebrows arch.

She’s laughing to herself a little, now. “Bet he thought that was funny, seeing where I ended up…”

Her face is all soft edges and he doesn’t want to snap the moment in half, so he keeps quiet. The carpark around them is filled with the black and grey indiscreet cars of the FBI staff that quietly stream through the building where they work. He’s a little heartened by the cheerful bumper stickers on hers. They say things like, “if you’re reading this you’re way too close” and “jesus had two dads and he turned out alright”. Beverley chose to park in the open air spaces, so he gets to watch the sun dip across the blue-grey sky.

Summer’s almost over. A breeze rustles through his clothes; chills his skin.

She shakes her head. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No.”

“When we were kids, we used to go to the beach for the summer. A lot of people had houses there too. One day I think some kid came up with the idea-kind of like a mangled version of the game today-we called it _gotcha._ There were a couple of us and we’d hide in bushes and we’d yell gotcha! And scare the crap out of each other. It wasn’t like hide and seek. We did it every opportunity we could. No one was safe, ever. We kept score-but the game faded away eventually because we kept getting into everybody else’s space. Someone would leap out from behind an outhouse and terrify an adult or a newcomer kid, and one time we made a cook nearly douse us with sauce…”

“Is that why you like the word so much?”

“Maybe. I suppose it stuck.”

“I honestly can’t imagine that."

“What do you mean?”

Beverly looks at him as he visibly swallows; tries to collect the right words.

“I mean…all of you must have been on edge."

“Yeah, it was nuts,” she says, smiling. He watches as she relaxes; appears to have come out of her nostalgia. “But there was something exhilarating about it. You’d be doing something normal and then-” she snaps her fingers. “Just like that. My mom used to say we’d give her a heart attack.”

He smiles then, remembering their conversation at the gun range, as they start walking back together wordlessly.

“That’s exactly what she said; to make us stop. Everyone deserves their privacy.”

“Do I seem like a motherly figure to you?” He asks, confused.

At that she snorts. “No. I’ve seen your place, remember?”

He digests that with a mildly offended expression. “No comment.”

“Silence means guilt. Age old phrase. Speaking of places, though…”

—

Hannibal had once said to him, “I have a high opinion of you, Will.”

Will had laughed bitterly and said, “I’m sure whatever you think, I don’t deserve it."

There’s a reason he doesn’t let talk of him and the agents cross the threshold of Hannibal’s…sanctuary. There’s something almost sacrilegious in it, he thinks, of average reality and getting drunk and being silly. Bringing that into Hannibal’s house- his somber and serious castle of luxury and security.

Her house is different. He doesn’t know what he expected, either; a residential version of the lab? The shooting range? It’s neat, surprisingly so; her laugh and her smile made him think she tosses her jackets on the sofa; leaves dishes dirty in the sink like him. She’s been working in the FBI sometime, it seems; she’s got a nice place, big windows, lots of sun. But there are trappings, here and there, that make him think maybe she’s more like him than he thought. A stone fireplace. A book casually left open on the coffee table about philosophy. A graphic novel on her kitchen counter.

She’s got a piano with a songbook open. The book is properly noted, neat black cursive print; her words never sloping.

“You play?” He says, fingers never touching the ivory keys.

“Yeah,” she says, plopping down on the couch with a relieved sigh. There’s a violin case next to the piano.

“Do you play many instruments?”

“Mm-well, not that many, just the violin, piano and the bass guitar, but I’m out of practice on the bass,” she replies.

“I didn’t know that about you.”

“Now you do,” she says with a yawn, “Brian and Jimmy should be here in about fifteen, I’m going to take a quick cat nap.”

She pauses for a second. “No Katz jokes. My house, my rules.”

He laughs a little. “You read my mind.”

She smiles as she closes her eyes. “Be careful, Agent Graham. I might end up your replacement.”

She falls asleep immediately. It’s impressive. One minute, she’s wisecracking, the next she’s out. He thinks, fondly, she must be a nightmare on patrols. At least that’s one part of the job he can be sure she hasn’t mastered beyond them all.

He brushes the keys once more and settles down on the bean bag next to her.

Jimmy brings in old black and white 1940’s films.

“Classics,” he calls them, while Beverley hums and reads the synopses instead of scoffing like Brian does.

Brian brings over _Star Trek_. Will had gotten a ride from Beverley after work, so he’d brought nothing(he only has animal documentaries anyway). He looks over at her movie collection. It’s a range of family friendly to period dramas(some of them Korean).

“It’s my turn, Brian,” Jimmy insists as Beverley makes the popcorn in the kitchen and chucks an uncooked piece at Brian.

Grumpily, Brian concedes. They all sit back to watch _The Philadelphia Story._

“Extra butter?” Beverley yells from the kitchen counter.

“Always!” Jimmy calls back.

“Thanks Bev, you’re the best,” Brian says, cheering up as soon as the gigantic bowl is placed on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Halfway through, Beverley leans in to whisper something about the actress in Will’s ear. She has to half get-up from her position on the couch to reach Will’s bean bag and almost overshoots.

Will doesn’t realize she’s that close and usually he would flinch but he doesn’t. It’s only when she begins to speak that he becomes too aware of her lips, her stray hair almost brushing his cheek, the heat of her close enough to pull into him. He doesn’t register anything she says, just nods mechanically.

As soon as the movie ends, he stands up and makes his excuses to leave. He doesn’t feel well. He’s an early night person. The stars are not in proper alignment, etcetera, he just needs to get out of there. His heart is a cacophony of gunshots, loud and continuous. His mouth dry. Luckily, Beverley, Brian and Jimmy seem to accept it. That even this tenuous camaraderie they’ve built up over the weeks has its limits.

Right before the door closes, though, he looks back and sees her piercing gaze looking straight at him.

He does not get any sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be erratic, sporadic, other words ending in _ic_. But rest assured, I've actually written past this chapter, it's just that editing is a bitch and there's other projects to worry about. I won't give up on this.
> 
> Beverley wouldn't.


End file.
